


Thinking Out Loud

by TheBananishInquisition



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fluff, M/M, just fluff, moving in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1903986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBananishInquisition/pseuds/TheBananishInquisition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last surviving rays of the sun are blaring into Jean’s window, covering Marco in a halo of light.</p>
<p>Now Jean’s pretty sure he’s not gay for his best friend but he’ll be damned if that perfect lighting doesn’t want to make him go down on one knee and confess his love for the freckled Adonis before him.</p>
<p>In which Jean has more than a few revelations about his freckled best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thinking Out Loud

**Author's Note:**

> In which I try to write JeanMarco fluff despite literally years of no literary creativity to try and get over canon. Yeah... still not over it...

He’s jolted awake by the thundering knocks on the door.

He blinks sleepily, raising his head, trying to adjust to the sun shining in through his window. He lets out a groan and brings his arm up to cover his sun ravaged eyes. In the short pause between the next bout of relentless knocking, he manages to drowse off once again.

More thundering.

“Jean!” Someone shouts from behind the door, “Jean! Wake up! I know you’re in there!”

Jean lets out another groan, louder this time so that the person outside can hear him and his complete and utter inability to awaken. He thinks he hears a chuckle at that.

“Jean,” the hammering starts again, “I’m going to kick the door in –I swear it!”

Jean doesn’t stop grumbling but he manages to gather enough strength to sit up and swing his legs off the couch he was sleeping on. He staggers to his feet and now with enough coherence to stand upright, Jean is able to see the carnage that wrecks what was supposed to be his new living room.

Boxes litter the room –those open and those still sealed –and any pieces of the floor free from them are covered in empty beer cans from yesterday’s brief respites. The furniture he moved in stand in awkward corners of the room, places still uncertain while the television is set on the ground, plugged in and ready to function regardless. Well, Jean supposes that’s why he called Marco over.

“Door down in five! Four! Three!”

He stumbles as his foot is caught on an unsuspecting box.

“Shit! I’m awake!”

Jean wrenches the door open and is automatically greeted with a cheeky smile from his freckled friend.

Marco looks as prim as ever in his jeans and green button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His brunette locks are still in dire need of a cut, but Jean supposes he doesn’t have any right to tell him so and unconsciously swipes a hand through his own tawny hair. Suddenly, Jean eyes catch the potted plant that rests in Marco’s right arm.

“Goodness Jean,” Marco chuckles, “I didn’t know you were so eager to see me.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Jean spits out good naturedly before moving out of the doorway to let Marco in.

Marco’s expression melts into one of horror as he steps into the room. He turns toward Jean with a disappointed frown. “You’ve had this apartment for literally one day. I even brought a house-warming gift!” He holds up the plant.

“Well that’s where you come in, isn’t it?” Jean yawns, making his way back to the couch. But on the way he’s held back as Marco catches his wrist. “Don’t go back to sleep.” He warns with a hard tug, “And –ugh, you’ve got to change out of those clothes.” Jean glares at him but gives up quickly under the mock-stern look on Marco’s face.

With a sigh, Jean looks down at his shirt, sweat-stained from the back-breaking work done yesterday. He pulls up the hem to take a sniff and recoils in disgust at his own odor.

“The clothes are in here… somewhere.” Jean gestures at the numerous boxes on the floor. Marco sighs before ducking down to carefully place his gift on a clean part of the floor and inspects the messy scrawls that label each box.

Jean is stripping off his shirt when he hears a triumphant noise followed by the sounds of tape painfully being stripped off a box.

“I found it –ack!” Marco cries, his pride turning into a noise of surprise at turning around to see Jean standing half-naked in the middle of the room. He throws a new shirt at Jean before turning around, hand slapped over his eyes. “Decency, Jean, oh my God!”

Jean quietly slips into the shirt. He doesn’t understand why he can’t change in front of Marco, but the light blush dusting his friend’s cheeks make for good secondhand embarrassment on Jean’s part.

He straightens himself and already he feels cleaner. Maybe he can get away without taking a shower if he just smothers his entire body with deodorant.

When Jean glances at Marco again, he notices that he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor and hunched over a particularly big box labeled ‘Nostalgic Shit’.

“Woah!” He gasps, holding up a big green jersey with his last name across the back, “I didn’t know you had this!” For some reason, Jean’s hand flies up to rub the back of his neck, his face growing hot. “You left it at some point… I think.”

No way he’s gonna admit he used to sleep in it.

“Well I guess you can keep it.” Marco says inquisitively, “It smells like you.”

Jean rushes over and snatches the jersey from his hand, “And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

They banter back and forth for the next few minutes before discussing their high school days and bleed into the horror that is college.

The sun rises higher in the sky and it’s almost afternoon by the time they get their priorities straight and remember that they need to keep unpacking.

They hustle and bustle around each other, weaving in and out of rooms, trying to straighten up Jean’s belongings. Most of the time, it just consists of Jean tossing things half-hazardly in somewhat of a close proximity to where they should be before Marco straightens it out. 

As the day moves on, Jean manages to sneak a few glances at his friend as they work.

The first time he does, he’s wondering how that lanky, awkwardly kind kid from high school managed to fill out enough to move tables around by himself, but he sure is thankful that he did. Not that Jean can’t. He just doesn’t want to. This he quickly assures himself of before he’s comparing those amazing freckled forearms to his own.

The second time he looks at Marco, Marco’s reaching up carefully placing plates into the cupboard above the oven and his shirt hikes up. Jean tilts his head and squints at the sliver of skin visible between the hem of Marco’s shirt and his jeans and asks himself if he’s ever remembered Marco having so many freckles. But the thought quickly disappears with the skin as Marco finishes and turns around, catching Jean’s gaze. He smiles. Jean smiles back with a thumbs-up trying to ignore the uncomfortable heat snaking up his neck.

The third time, they’re eating a late lunch at Jean’s new dining table and Marco’s laughing at some crappy joke Jean’s made when Jean’s eyes are caught by the shape of Marco’s mouth –they way they curl at the ends, the pink-ish color, the teeth he supposes. Something from the back of his mind tells him that it’s a bit creepy to be admiring his best friend’s mouth –teeth of all things, but he’s suddenly broken from his reverie as Marco’s silverware clatter to the floor in a moment of clumsiness.

By evening, they’re almost done putting everything away and Jean’s taking a break when Marco catches the small clutter of long boxes in a discreet corner of the room. He tuts when he realizes they’re cabinets from Ikea to set up and threatens to call Connie and Sasha to help if Jean won’t get off the couch.

Jean’s gets himself comfortable again and he drinks some fresh coffee that Marco brew to break in the new coffee machine Jean bought. He sips cautiously and recoils at the bitter taste.

But Marco drinks his coffee black so Jean can’t think of a reason as to why he shouldn’t either.

Marco gets off the phone and turns to Jean.

“I called Connie and Sasha.”

“I hope you know what you’ve done.” Jean counters, one arm behind his head, the other wrapped around the mug as he lightly closes his eyes.

“Ah well,” Marco sighs, “I suppose we’ve done all we could… but you’re still missing one thing…”

Jean hears Marco move around and a soft thunk as Marco finishes with a triumphant, “And we’re done!”

Jean slowly peeks through one open eye in curiosity and his heart stutters at the sight.

The last surviving rays of the sun are blaring into Jean’s window, covering Marco in a halo of light.

Marco is smiling, carefully picking at the plant he brought, and the sun is hitting him in a way that makes his freckles look just a bit darker against the deep color of his skin. His teeth stand against the shadows of his face only being outshined by the brilliance of his eyes crinkled up with happiness and some other feeling Jean can’t quite grasp. A brilliance that radiates through his too-long, dark locks that flutter softly with every blink of those beautiful brown eyes.

Now Jean’s pretty sure he’s not gay for his best friend but he’ll be damned if that perfect lighting doesn’t want to make him go down on one knee and confess his love for the freckled Adonis before him.

Jean’s pretty sure he’s not gay for Marco Bott but he’s completely and utterly captivated by the sight before him and a roaring fills his ears and something is pressing against his chest and every part of him can feel his heart going into overdrive as he refuses to tear his eyes away.

And he’s falling, falling, falling, falling.

“It’s very homey, isn’t it Jean?”

But Jean isn’t listening to anything but his heartbeat and it’s all he can do to just breathe without choking on air because Marco is _smiling at him_ and he feels so overwhelmed with an inexplicable feeling that causes him to take a long blink and just inhale for one second.

He looks at Marco again but his face is too close and he’s not smiling anymore. The sun isn’t hitting him perfectly; but Jean still shudders at the long, thick lashes draped over Marco’s deep brown irises –at the cluster of freckles smattered across his nose too close to discern individually, at his straight, dark brows cutely furrowed in worry.

Something is thundering in Jean’s head and he almost feels like he’s waking up for the second time that day.

Because Jean’s pretty sure he’s gay for Marco Bott.

Marco takes the mug from Jean’s hand and carefully puts it down on the floor.

“Gosh Jean,” Marco says in a worried tone, “you’ve gotta be more careful.” And so Jean looks down at himself and notices the stain of spilled coffee dripping down his shirt but he can barely feel the scalding burn of it on his skin because Marco’s looking at him –straight into his eyes and they’re doing the thing again.

The thing where Jean feels like all the air is being sucked out of his lungs.

“At least you’re okay, right?” Marco asks, but Jean can only hum in response because their lips are inches –centimeters away and if he just leans a bit forward he might be able to catch Marco’s lips –curved into a beautifully delicate smile –and preserve them forever. Then he’s starting to suffocate and  Marco is laughing at the way Jean is squirming as Marco tries to tear his shirt off because every brush of Marco’s hand against his skin is burning, burning, _burning_ ; and it’s all Jean can do to keep from spontaneously combusting on his very flammable couch.

His protests are muffled by his shirt and Marco is very awkwardly trying to slip Jean’s arms out when the door crashes open with a crash followed by two whoops of declaration.

“We’re here!” Connie yells teetering on one foot from kicking the door open and Sasha on his back waving a pastry in one hand and hanging onto Connie’s neck with the other.

Jean manages to struggle his head out enough to look at them and take in their looks of surprise at the awkward situation before them and a silence settles into the room.

“That is so hella gay.” Connie chokes out finally.

No shit.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah I like Ed Sheeran. And yeah I don't have any creativity to come up with an original title. So sue me. Actually...


End file.
